Towering over him, the Gullah woman pulled in a deep breath. 'Detective David Gould'-her next words were enunciated very clearly-'I curse you.'
The keys stopped.
While the stenographer sat there, mouth agape, Strata Luna pulled the veil back down over her face and swept from the room.
After a moment, David reached out and shut off the recorder with a loud click.
Sitting behind the wheel of the Lincoln Continental, Flora blew her nose and threw the tissue on the floor with a deep pile of others. She hadn't wanted to come today, but Strata Luna had needed someone to drive her to the police station. Then she'd made her wait in the car, which was probably for the best because she couldn't quit crying. Every time she thought she was done for at least a few minutes, she would start all over again. Her head ached from it. Her face hurt. She couldn't breathe through her nose.
She reached up and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and saw that her face was splotchy and swollen. Even though David had told her to quit coming around, she desperately needed to see him, but not when she looked so awful.
The passenger door flew open and Strata Luna slid inside.
Flora stretched across the seat and began raking in the wet, wadded-up tissues.
'Drive,' Strata Luna demanded. 'Just drive. To Bonaventure. I need to visit my children.'
Leaving the tissues, Flora straightened and turned the key in the ignition. 'Did you see David?' she asked, pulling away from the curb.
'I saw him,' Strata Luna said.
'And?'
'I think it's time you found yourself a new boyfriend.'
Shortly after Strata Luna stormed out of the building, Elise's phone rang.
'Got some news,' Cassandra Vince, the GBI medical examiner, announced. 'Using mass spectrometry, we were able to detect trace amounts of tetrodotoxin in Gary Turello's liver.'
It was the information they needed to finally link the old deaths with the new ones. It meant someone had been killing people with tetrodotoxin for at least a year and a half.
Chapter 36
Even though David had never had a problem remembering the day his son had been born, most other birthdays and anniversaries eluded him. But that kind of memory lapse was history. He would never forget the day Christian died.
Now, alone in his apartment, he had to admit that subconsciously he'd known the anniversary was coming, even though he hadn't strung the words together in his head. He didn't have it marked on a mental calendar, where he would have crossed out each day as it drew near.
Maybe that would have been better. Maybe then he would have been able to deal with it when it came knocking. As it was, his avoidance of the approaching date had left him wide open.
It had been less than two days since Strata Luna had visited headquarters and put a curse on him. During that time, they'd scoured the city for Flora, hoping to get her statement, but she'd been elusive, always one step ahead of them.
And then there was Elise. So damn worried about the curse. To David, her concern and preoccupation made about as much sense as fretting over an alien invasion. And if by some remote chance curses were real? Well, he'd been cursed years ago. What was one more?
By nine p.m. he was experiencing a strong sense of foreboding. A smothering claustrophobia that wasn't external, that had nothing to do with his apartment.
He was the cage. He was the dark pit.
By nine thirty he felt himself breaking.
Blond hair floating in the bathtub.
Blond boy. Blond baby.
Pull him out. Turn him over.
Blue lips.
Blue hands.
Little blue hands.
David's throat tightened. His eyes burned.
He'd been doing so well, but it had been a trick. He saw that now. He'd just buried it. Put it away because he couldn't bear to see it. His shrink had been right. And now he'd looked away for a minute, and when he looked back, there it was. Right there. Right in front of him.
Floating blond hair.
His life. His fucked, fucked life.
How could a human tolerate so much anguish? It didn't seem possible.
I should be dead.
He should explode, or his heart should just quit beating.
I have to get out of here.
He had to get out of his own head, had to somehow escape his thoughts, because if he didn't, he was afraid he might get stuck like this. And the pain would never stop.
Had to run. Run away.
His heart pounded. His hands trembled as he changed into navy blue shorts and a gray T-shirt.
The dark streets were welcoming.
Fragrant.
Humid.
Heat from the day clung to the asphalt.
This was familiar. This was something he could do.
Run.
Forget.
The rhythmic slap of his jogging shoes gradually lulled him. Relaxed him. Soothed him.
Put him in a trance.
How far could he go?
Into tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
He imagined himself running on the surface of a giant globe. Running around the entire world. Never stopping. He wouldn't need food or water or sleep.
He was a machine.
And machines didn't think. Machines didn't feel.
His feet slapped the street.
May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.
Don't think. Don't think. Don t think.
Goofer dust around the door
Sprinkled in the bed
Wake up in the morning
Find yourself dead.
May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.
I watch him.
From my hiding place, I see him coming closer. Running down the middle of the street. Weaving.
Breathing hard.
